


Wedding

by linndechir



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Future Fic, Political Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doubts she will ever love the king when she agrees to marry him, but Jon assures her that Stannis is as just and honourable as father had been, and that alone is more than she can say about any other man she has met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the [](http://got-exchange.livejournal.com/profile)[**got_exchange**](http://got-exchange.livejournal.com/) [comment fic meme](http://gotexchange-mod.livejournal.com/1067.html).

Once upon a time, a little girl named Sansa Stark had planned out her wedding in every detail. During the ceremony her husband-to-be - young, handsome, tall, strong - would stand behind her and put his cloak around her shoulders, his hands warm and gentle, and then he would lean in to kiss her cheek, and his lips and face would be as smooth as her own.

Then, after her father's death, she had come to dread her wedding to the golden prince who had turned out to be a monster, and when she did get married to the prince's uncle, it had been nothing but a farce, a nightmare so strange that she could barely believe now it had ever happened.

She was still terrified on her true wedding day - and she knew that this would not be a fleeting, unconsummated thing like her Lannister wedding, that this would be for life - but it was a different kind of fear. Men said that her husband, the king, was a man of honour, hard, but just and fair, uncompromising, but not cruel without cause. Jon said so. He seemed to hold the king in high regard, and even though she had never been close to her bastard brother, she could not imagine him respecting a monster. Jon - Ser Jon now, she corrected herself, and she was still not used to seeing him in white - looked at the king with such admiration, and yet the man himself intimidated her as much as Tywin Lannister had.

She had always wanted her whole family to be at her wedding, mother and father and Robb, little Bran and Rickon, and even Arya would be there, wearing a beautiful dress for once. But she forced herself to cut that line of thought before tears found the way to her eyes. She was a Stark of Winterfell and the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms. So she swallowed and glanced at Jon, as silent and white as his direwolf as he followed the king, only a few steps behind. He didn't look like a bastard boy anymore in his Kingsguard armour, he looked grown-up, handsome even, and Sansa reminded herself that she should be grateful at least one familiar face was here.

King Stannis Baratheon was not a splendid sight, but he was as intimidating in black and golden finery - still oddly understated for a king on his wedding day - as he was in the dark armour she had seen him in before. He looked regal, though, she found herself thinking, more like a king than Robert or Joffrey ever had: tall and broad-shouldered, the golden crown as sharp as the angles of his face, and although he looked uncomfortable with the court's eyes on him, there was a strength in his bearing that made her shiver. She used to dream of a prince, not of a warrior king.

His blue eyes remained cold throughout the entire ceremony. At first she thought he looked indifferent, and she wondered with sympathy if he was still grieving for his first wife, but then she realised that he looked merely annoyed. As if marrying her was a nuisance, a tedious duty like arguing with lords and listening to petitioners. She had felt relief the first few times she had met him because he had always looked into her eyes, never at her body, never stared at her with that threatening desire she had almost grown used to seeing in men's eyes. But he still met her eyes as he swore his vows, his movements seemed almost mechanical as he draped the golden cloak over her shoulders, and for the first time she realised that marrying a man who did not even want her might just be worse.

His fingertips brushed her temples as he put the crown on her head, a more slender version of the one he was wearing, the metal cool against her brow. _Queen_ , she thought. It was too cold in the throne room, and she shivered. _Queen Sansa_. It had once been her greatest dream, but now she felt lost next to this man who was old enough to be her father, and who looked like he had about as much use for her as for a child.

She heard murmurs in the crowd and could only hope they commented on nothing but her beauty. She knew they muttered and complained, all of them – the Tyrells who would have gladly pushed Lady Margaery at yet another king, the Martells who tried to offer him Princess Arianne when the last Targaryens fell. She wondered why he had chosen her, if it was gratitude to the North or anger at the South.

The feast was a sullen affair. There was singing and dancing and delicious food, but the king only glared at the court and barely looked at her, and she heard him mutter to his Lord Hand that the crown should not have wasted money on such frivolity. She did not hear the Hand's reply – Lord Davos, a common-looking man, and she found it hard to believe the king raised a smuggler to a lordship – but it seemed to calm the king for a moment, before their conversation grew somewhat more agitated. The king looked angry, glanced at her, then seemed to relent.

As he offered her his arm and led her from the table, she realised that Lord Davos had to _talk_ King Stannis into dancing with her. Her back straightened as she felt the court's eyes on them, her face stilled into a carefully arranged mask. Most of the men present had been here when Joffrey had had her beaten, but she would not let them disrespect her. She would make them see a queen, not a frightened girl who could not meet her husband's eye.

She did not flinch when he took her hand, large and rough, the other one resting on her hip as lightly as if he were afraid to touch her. She found it oddly reassuring to see his strength kept under such a tight lid.

It was not that he _couldn't_ dance. He knew the steps, he never stepped on her toes like her brothers used to when they were children, his hands were guiding her without pushing or pulling. But she had never seen any man look more uncomfortable, more stiff, more out of his element than Stannis Baratheon in this moment, his face calm and concentrated, his brow still furrowed in annoyance.

"It's a mummer's farce," he muttered after a while, and she looked up in surprise. It was the first time he had addressed her today with anything but courteous phrases, and there was a refreshing honesty in his voice. "They cower and bow, when half of them watched your father's murder and fought for my downfall."

"They lost, Your Grace," she replied quietly, and she dared to curl her fingers a little more around his. She hesitated, chose her words carefully. She did not say, _we won_ , because it had never been about winning for her. She had never wanted to play this game. "They lost, and we ... we live."

He met her eyes then, and for the first time she felt like he was truly looking at her, at _her_ , not at Ned Stark's daughter, not at the sister of the Lord of Winterfell, not at the woman he married to produce a male heir. For a moment she feared that he would think her words stupid, that he would be angry and hurt her, but instead there was just a twitch in his jaw muscles and he nodded.

The king didn't say any more, he led her back to the table after a single dance, but she liked to think that he pulled his hand away from her arm just a little less quickly than before. As the king turned back to Lord Davos, Jon leant forward and whispered into her ear.

"What did you say to make His Grace _smile_?" It was not very ladylike, but for a moment she stared at him with her mouth open like a fish.

"That was his _smile_?" And as Jon's eyes brightened with humour, so much like father's when he watched them play, she found herself smiling as well. Next to her the king was sipping water from a cup, and she had seen enough drunk men to find his sobriety reassuring. His eyes met hers for a second, and in that one moment she remembered all the things he had said to her the few times they met before today.

_I know you will not love me, nor will I ever ask you to. I only expect you to do your duty._

_You do not want this. No, don't flatter me by pretending otherwise._

_You will be protected now, you have my word on that. You have nothing to fear from the Lannisters, from anyone. Nor from me._

_Queen Cersei will be executed tomorrow morning. I thought you should know._ That had been the last time the king had spoken to her before the wedding. She had straightened her back at the news, and even to her own ears her voice had sounded like ice when she replied, _With Your Grace's permission, I would like to be present at the execution._ She thought she had seen something like approval in his eyes then, and he had granted her the request.

Maybe, she thought, maybe it would not be so bad. Mother married father out of duty when he was nothing but a stranger, and they loved each other more than any other couple she ever saw. She could not imagine ever loving King Stannis – and his eyes were so cold that she could not imagine him loving her either – but for just one moment she allowed herself to hope that he might at least treat her kindly.

It was more than she had dared to hope for in years.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa had been more scared of the bedding than of anything else, terrified by the idea of all those lords and knights ripping at her gown, jesting and laughing as they brought her to the bed chamber. It took all of her composure to keep her face calm when the king rose from the table, and the glimmer of anticipation she saw in some of the men's eyes made her sick.

Words could not express her relief when King Stannis explained curtly that he thought the bedding a frivolous tradition he wouldn't accept at his court.

"It won't do to have the court tear off their king's and queen's clothes. I will not have it," he snarled when a young knight – obviously too far in his cups already – dared to object. "Ser Jon, Ser Rolland, you will make sure the queen is left in peace." He gave her an awkward nod. "My lady."

Flanked by two other Kingsguard knights, the king took off, still followed by the ladies of the court, though at a more respectful distance than Sansa would have expected. She was grateful when Jon offered her his arm to guide her towards the other corridor that led out of the hall, for she would not have known where she was to go. Ghost quietly padded next to her. She smiled when he pushed his large head up against her hand, and she held on to his fur a little. Once she had found Jon's red-eyed, silent direwolf terrifying, but now it almost felt like having another family member present. Lady's death had been the beginning of her nightmare, and she wanted to hope that this was finally the end of it.

She still flinched when the men of the court flocked around them. Even without a _proper_ bedding, the lords and ladies at least reserved their right to accompany the bride and groom to the bed chambers, and soon enough the first men – those who had drunk far more than was good for them – started shouting ribald remarks that made Sansa blush.

"Don't listen to them," Jon said quietly and pulled her closer. "They resent you because King Stannis chose you, not one of their daughters or sisters. It is only tonight. From tomorrow on, no one will dare to speak to you that way."

The words still cut, though some of them were so vulgar that she wasn't even quite sure what they meant. Someone called her a pretty little thing that would certainly bring a smile even to King Stannis' face.

"Can you blame him, after that old hag he had before, he's bound to have some fun with this one!"

"She's barely older than his daughter. Maybe he just likes them young!"

Sansa felt as if her face was on fire. She clung desperately to Jon's arm and Ghost's fur, and she wished she could just stop listening. She knew that the bride was supposed to talk back to the lords with witty replies, but she couldn't think of anything to say. She knew she'd be crying if they were touching her on top of everything else, but even drunk no man was foolish enough to try to get past a direwolf and two Kingsguard knights.

"And what if he does, my lord, that still makes you a jealous old fop." The voice startled her, and she saw Ser Rolland grinning at her for a moment. His face frightened her – ravaged by pox marks, it almost looked as bad as the Hound's – but his eyes were always gentle and smiling, and he had been more gallant to her than the king on the few occasions when they had met. He was a bastard, of course, but she did not think she should judge a man whom someone as demanding as King Stannis had deemed worthy of his Kingsguard. Ser Rolland kept smiling and mouthed, "I am just distracting them, Your Grace."

She frowned in confusion, until she realised that the lords were soon too busy trading jokes and insults with Ser Rolland, who didn't even seem to mind the bastard jibes thrown in his direction. Even Jon smiled a little, and Sansa found herself doing the same.

"He's quite witty," she said when one of Ser Rolland's comments drew gasps and laughter from the crowd. Jon shook his head, smiling.

"He's not witty, he's rude. He's only keeping his tongue in check for your sake, Your Grace. You don't want to know what he's going to say once you're out of earshot," Jon replied. She leant against him, her hand tightening on his arm. 

"You should call me Sansa, Jon. I _am_ your sister."

Jon almost faltered in his steps and stared at her. She had never seen him look so happy before. It made her feel bad for all the times she had shunned him as a child, but she knew she would have years to make up for her unkindness to him.

By the time they reached the bed chambers, their company had fallen a bit behind. Ser Rolland had somehow managed to hold them up at the last turn of the corridor, so Sansa and Jon walked the last steps alone. Sansa felt her fear return as she glanced at the door, all too aware of what would happen once she walked through it.

"You mustn't be afraid of the king, Sansa," Jon said softly. She gave him a doubtful look. King Stannis was easily the most terrifying man she had ever met. "I know he is harsh and blunt, but he is a good man. He is not cruel, only ... I'm afraid he's not very at ease around women. But he knows you've been hurt, and I begged him to be kind to you."

Sansa nodded, but she still felt tears welling up in her eyes. She couldn't even smile as Ghost licked her hand, wheezing the way he did when he tried to whine.

"I wish I could trade places with you," Jon added with a sigh. Sansa gave him an incredulous look.

"That would be ... very inappropriate." He blushed vividly and looked away, and even now she could not help but laugh at his unfortunate choice of words.

"I ... I know that. I did not mean it literally. I only meant that if ... if I could do anything to spare you your fear, I would," he stammered, then took a deep breath to steady his voice. "Don't be afraid. He _smiled_ at you. I've only ever seen him smile at Lord Davos before, so he must like you."

He kept holding her hand until her breathing had calmed down a little, but she realised she could not stand here forever. Straightening her back and gathering her courage, she let go of his hand and gave him a curt nod, then stepped into the bed chambers.

The king had not yet arrived, but a servant girl entered behind her, eyes lowered as she said that she'd been sent to assist Her Grace with her dress. She did not want to undress, but she'd rather take off her dress now than have her husband rip it off, so she nodded quietly and let the girl help her.

She did not know what she was supposed to do once the girl left and closed the door behind her. There was a fire in the hearth, but Sansa still shivered a little, clad in nothing but her thin undergown, her feet bare on the floor. She was also tired after the long day, and since there was no chair in the room, she sat down on the edge of the bed. The covers were dark and soft, more precious than anything she would have expected to find in Stannis Baratheon's bed. She scolded herself for the thought – he was the king, after all, she doubted that anyone would ask him what sheets he liked. 

She wrapped herself into one of the thicker blankets, painfully aware of how low-cut her undergown was. The memory of the time Joffrey had had her stripped was still fresh in her mind, and she still flinched every time a man looked at her breasts, even when she was fully dressed. 

King Stannis arrived shortly after. Followed by loud voices and giggling from the corridor, he looked somewhat miffed and slightly dishevelled. His doublet was half unbuttoned, revealing the white shirt he was wearing underneath. Apparently the ladies had taken his refusal of a proper bedding a bit less seriously than the lords, and the look in his eyes was one of relief when the door closed behind him. She almost got up, but he motioned for her to stay seated, a curt gesture as if he was dismissing a servant. His hands were large and broad, they looked like a soldier's, not like a king's. But they had been so careful during the dance that she dared to hope there was some kindness in him, a kindness he needed to hide from a treacherous court, but not from his wife.

As he took off the crown and put it aside, she could not help but notice his almost bald head. Of course she had known before that he was bald, but it was easier to ignore while the golden crown rested on his brow. Oddly, though, it did not make him look old or feeble, but simply harsher, his face all sharp lines and hard angles. Stannis Baratheon's face looked like one could cut oneself on it.

Sansa did not know what to expect from this man who seemed so gruff and dispassionate, and it only served to frighten her more. She had managed to keep up her façade the whole day, had played the composed, beautiful queen, not smiling, no, but as serious and calm as her husband. Alone with him in his chambers, she did not feel like a queen anymore, but like a frightened girl who could only pray that her husband would be gentle.

For a man who usually exuded will power and determination, King Stannis seemed oddly hesitant as he walked over to her, standing in front of the bed for a few moments before he sat down next to her. The distance between them was so great that he would have to stretch out his arm to touch her at all. He looked uncomfortable, uneasy, as if he would much prefer to be somewhere else.

His blue eyes were piercing, and she averted her gaze. There was something frightening about the way he looked at people, as if he could see their every failure and flaw with one unforgiving glance. The silence stretched out, grew more and more oppressive, and Stannis still did not move.

"Do I not please Your Grace?" Sansa asked finally, and her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears. She glanced up, just in time to notice surprise on his face. Stannis did not seem to know what to say.

"You are ... you are very beautiful, my lady." The words sounded so awkward from Stannis' lips that they barely felt like a compliment. It was almost endearing. She had seen Stannis Baratheon frighten a whole court into shocked silence with a few harsh words, she had seen him subdue lords with a well-placed jibe. He was not charismatic or even witty the way Lord Renly had been, but he did have a way with words. Yet he did not even seem to know how to pay a woman – his bride – a simple compliment without sounding like he was tying his tongue in a knot.

But he had tried, at least, and so she tried to look at him the way he had looked at her during the dance. Tried to see past the clenched jaw and the furrowed brow, tried to see the man Jon spoke of so highly, saying he was as honourable and just as father had been. With that thought on her mind, Sansa managed not to flinch as King Stannis finally lifted his hand.

She expected him to touch her face, her breasts, her thighs, but to her surprise his hand moved to her hair. His fingers were careful, and rather than caressing her he slowly removed one of the hairpins, then another, sending a long braid tumbling down. She did not move, afraid to anger him, just kept still as he slowly undid her hair. It pulled a little sometimes, but she could tell he was trying to be gentle. She turned her head so he could reach her better, and one time she raised her hand to help him when one of the pins was too tangled in her hair. Their fingers touched, and Sansa felt herself blush.

One hairpin after the other was put on the nightstand, he unbraided her hair until it fell over her shoulders in soft waves, and only then did he run his fingers through it. At first the touch was so light that she barely felt it, but it grew steadier when she did not flinch, until his hand came to rest against the side of her neck. His hand was warm, even through her own hair, and it did not feel as unpleasant as she had expected. She noticed only now that Stannis had moved closer during those minutes he had spent undoing her hair; only an inch remained between their thighs now. He touched her hair almost reverently and she relaxed a little, even as his thumb brushed the skin of her throat.

"My lady," he started. His voice was gruff as always, but somewhat hesitant. If he did not still look so imposing, she would have thought him nervous. "Would you ... would you allow me to kiss you?"

The words took her by surprise, it was such an odd thing to ask a woman on her wedding night that she wondered if it was a trick question. What bit of her suspicions he had dissolved before returned immediately, and she tensed up. _Courtesy is a lady's armour_ , she reminded herself. _I must not anger him._

"You are my king and my husband, Your Grace. You may do as you please."

He frowned at that and pulled back his hand. Her skin tingled where he had touched her.

"I told you that I expect nothing from you but your duty, my lady. It is your duty to give me a son, not to ... pleasure me." He spat out the word as if he found the very idea of pleasure offensive. Usually she would have wondered if he still grieved for his lady wife, but Jon had assured her that King Stannis and Queen Selyse had been so estranged from one another that the king had barely reacted when news of her death had reached him. But she couldn't understand why else he would hesitate so much, when pleasure had seemed to be the thing men desired most from her.

She kept looking at him, noticing all the little things she had seen in him before, but they seemed different in this situation. The tenseness of his posture, the frown, the clenched set of his jaw – it all spoke of strength when he was sitting on the throne, but right now it betrayed only discomfort and hesitation. This was not a man who would throw himself at her, who would push her down and force his way between her legs. And yet it was also a man who had married out of duty, out of the need for an heir, and Sansa was not so naive that she did not know what needed to be done for that to happen. 

She wondered if her lady mother had felt like this on her wedding night, if she had sat on her bed like this with father, who had been a stranger then and not her beloved _Ned_ , if they had looked at each other and not quite known what to do. Father had not been handsome and he had always appeared stern and distant to those he did not know, yet mother had come to love him dearly. She had once told Sansa that if a woman truly loved a man, she would learn to see beauty in him, even if he did not look like the prince of her childhood dreams.

She tried to find something handsome in King Stannis' face, but his countenance only frightened her. His lips were drawn in a tight line, the short-cropped, black beard looked rough and she imagined it would scratch on her cheeks. She did not want to kiss him.

And yet she felt that if she rejected him now, he would never ask again. It was only then that she truly, fully realised that this man who was so unlike anything she had ever wished for was her husband, that she would spend her life with him, sharing his meals and his bed, standing by his side at court, bearing and raising his children. Sansa could not stand the thought of never being kissed by her own husband.

So she put her hand on his, she leant forward and tilted her head up, lips parting in fear more than anticipation. She took a deep breath to find the strength she needed for her words.

"I believe it _should_ be a husband's duty to kiss his lady wife, Your Grace."

A muscle in his jaw twitched again, and this time Sansa remembered Jon's words – that she had made Stannis smile. For the second time today, and she felt an odd sense of pride at that. She closed her eyes as he leant forward to close the distance between them, thinking that it might be easier if she did not have to look at him.

She felt his breath before anything else, clean and fresh, smelling of lemons – the smell reminded her of eating lemoncakes in the summer sun, back in Winterfell. His lips were less rough than she would have thought when they met hers, an almost fleeting caress. Maybe it was the thought of home that made her smile, but she did, and she leant into him when he almost pulled away, pressing her lips against his.

He took her hand then, but even though his hand was so much larger than hers, his grasp was not constraining. She had always dreamt of entangling her fingers with her beloved's, and so she did now, just as he raised his other hand back to her hair, fingers resting in the loose strands without touching skin.

Their mouths were still close, a hair's breadth apart before they touched again. His lips were parted this time, and she dared to let her tongue sneak out just far enough to brush his upper lip. His beard tickled rather than scratched. It reminded her of home as much as the smell of lemons, of father hugging her and even of Jon's embrace when they had found each other again.

She opened her eyes when the kiss ended, and for just a second the king's forehead was smooth until his frown returned. Her heart was still racing in her chest, but she was not entirely sure it was only out of fear anymore. She felt a strange flutter in her stomach, and without thinking she leant her head a little into his hand.

He looked at her expectingly, and it took her a moment to realise that he was waiting for a reaction – and, judging by his scowl, for a rejection. Her lips tingled a little, she could taste lemons on them. It was not an unpleasant feeling.

"That was lovely, Your Grace," she said quietly, and she was surprised herself that she did not need to force the words out of her mouth. It was no lie, no carefully constructed phrase to appease him, but the truth. She would have imagined his kisses to be rough and brutal, but he had been as gentle as if he were afraid to break her. 

"Lovely?" The king seemed to choke on the word, and he looked so dumbfounded that Sansa could not help but smile. There was probably nothing in the world that Stannis Baratheon would ever refer to as 'lovely'. Sansa raised her hand and ran her fingers over his forehead, over the deep lines of his frown, and she felt him relax a little underneath her fingertips. He looked far less intimidating without that perpetual scowl. Younger as well.

"Yes, lovely. Not like I expected." She bit her tongue when she realised what she had said, but Stannis did not seem to take her words as an insult. Sansa's hand rested on his cheek now, on pale, leathery skin and coarse hair. She had not thought about it before, too focused on the crown and the Southern clothes, but she noticed now how much Stannis looked like a Northerner, rough and bearded, his skin marked by cold wind and snow storms. Once, before all of this had happened, she had dreamt of sweet Southern princes with blond hair and smooth cheeks, but now she missed home, missed Winterfell, missed men who looked harsh, but whose beards and frowns hid more kindness than Southern courtesy ever had. 

And yet she could not help but wince when his hand suddenly moved to her shoulder, his grasp stronger than before. It startled rather than frightened her, but his face fell a little.

"You are afraid of me," Stannis stated, and there was a dull resignation in his voice. He sounded so crestfallen that she almost felt guilty, for he had not given her any reason to fear him, not yet.

"I am sorry, Your Grace. It is merely ... most things, most people frighten me these days, after everything that has happened. Your Grace is not to blame."

"Look at me, my lady," he said, and she forced herself to meet his eyes. His face wasn't ugly or disfigured, there was a certain resemblance to his late brother Renly if she looked close enough. If he'd only smile, she thought, he might not look so terrifying. But if Stannis Baratheon had ever known how to smile, he seemed to have forgotten about it long ago.

_Like me._

"I know that this is not what you want. _I_ am not what you want. I am not my brother Renly or the Knight of Flowers. But it is as it is, and we must do our duty – whether we like it or not. I would not want it to be any worse for you than it already is." His frown deepened, he seemed to be looking for the right words. The longer he spoke, the more uncomfortable he seemed. "I may not be able to give you much else, but you have my word that I will not hurt you."

Too many lies and too many disappointments had made her distrustful, no matter how honest he sounded, but now she was not sure what to think. She glanced down at her hand in the king's, then back into his eyes. He was the first man who did not seem to expect anything from her, who did not even hope for her love, let alone ask for it. It made her wonder if no one had ever loved him before, but she could not understand why that would be. He was not handsome, but he was not a monster either. And Jon had said that King Stannis was incapable of lying, of dissimulating, that his greatest flaw was being too blunt. He had even compared the king to father, and what higher praise was there?

"I believe you, Your Grace. I do. But ... aren't all girls afraid on their wedding night?"

"How would I know, I haven't been married that often," he snapped back, but he sounded miffed rather than angry.

"Once more often than me," she replied, more sharply than she had intended. His face turned thoughtful at that and his fingers tightened on hers. The grasp was not painful, but strong, a quiet reminder of what he could do if he chose to. She hoped he would not mention Tyrion Lannister, not when she had sworn under oath that their marriage had never been consummated, not when the king had insisted a maester examine her to make sure she was still a maiden. And it was not as if her words had been a lie, she thought, for she had not yet been married where it truly counted, she had never had a wedding night worthy of that name.

"You are right, my lady," he admitted finally, and she sighed in relief. He still looked unhappy. "But my first marriage was rather unpleasant. I would not wish to repeat that, but to do it better this time."

"Why would you bother, Your Grace?" she asked and looked down at their entwined fingers. Her hand looked so small against his, so soft. So weak. She knew there was nothing she could do if he decided to hurt her. He could probably hold her down with one hand alone.

"Because I know how it goes when I don't bother." His jaw muscles twitched again, but she was not sure if this was supposed to be another smile. He looked like he wanted to say more, wanted to explain, but instead he was grinding his teeth again, like he had during the feast. It was an awful sound, and Sansa's jaw hurt just from looking at him.

Her hand returned to his face, even more shyly than before. Her fingers brushed over his jaw this time, and she smiled as it stopped moving. She caressed the stubbly chin, once again put off by the beard, yet it had not felt so bad against her cheeks. Maybe she could get used to it in time.

"I want to be a good wife to you, Your Grace." He did not evade her touch, and that encouraged her. She kept stroking his cheek, hoping that the unreadable look in his eyes was some kind of approval. "If you let me."

"Why would _you_ bother?"

"You are my husband, Your Grace." The word still sounded unfamiliar and yet thrilling to her ears. _Husband._ She had spent her whole life thinking of this day, this moment, wondering what it would be like. And though she had married – been forced to marry – before, it had felt more like a bad dream. Not so real, so ... irrevocable. "Shouldn't we try to be happy with each other?"

She wished she could read him, could see his emotions and thoughts in the slight changes of his expressions, but his face was like a closed book to her. He could be about to kiss her or about to slap her, and she wouldn't see either coming. 

He kissed her.

The suddenness startled her and he was more forward about it than the first time, one hand in her hair as he pressed his mouth against hers. But even so there was still something oddly restrained about his movements, as if part of him wanted to back away from her even as he came closer. She swallowed her fear and returned the kiss, parting her lips as she felt the tip of his tongue against them. Her eyes closed again. She was not quite sure if she was doing this right, but it felt pleasant, the way his lips moved against hers, the way his fingers combed through her hair until they came to rest between her shoulder blades.

She slid a bit closer to him, her hand found his shoulder just as he sucked lightly on her bottom lip, sending a tingle through her entire body. She felt hard muscle through the golden and black doublet, muscle and bone, and for the first time she wondered what he looked like underneath his clothes. Although the war had left him bonier than a man should be, he was still broad-shouldered and strong, his body steeled from wearing heavy armour. This time she did not flinch when he pulled her closer, even though she was relieved that their sitting position made it impossible for him to capture her too tightly in his arms. 

By the time he stopped kissing her she was out of breath, so exhilarated that she was only a little disappointed when her eyes opened and he still looked like before, too gaunt and pale to be handsome. There was finally some sort of emotion in his eyes, a heat that had not been there before.

Sansa felt flushed, somewhat embarrassed by the tingling sensation in her stomach that wasn't quite fear, but more akin to excitement. Feeling more daring than she had the whole evening she moved her hand to his chest, fingertips brushing his skin above the hem of the shirt. She could see coarse black hair on his chest and she ran her fingers over it curiously. As her fingers dipped underneath the fabric she found herself wondering if it covered his whole chest. She had always dreamt of leaning her head against her husband's chest, resting in his arms as he held her, but she wasn't sure if the king would let her.

Stannis let go of her hand to unbutton his doublet fully, then shrugged out of it. She still saw barely more skin than before, but even a king looked less imposing in shirtsleeves than when he was dressed for court. She knew it was a ridiculous thought, knew he could still hurt her without breaking a sweat, but it seemed to put them on more equal footing, with him in a shirt as thin as her undergown.

She was so absorbed in her thoughts, and also in the feeling of his chest underneath her fingers – hard muscle even there, but she could feel his ribs and thought not for the first time that he needed to eat more – that his voice startled her a little. Her hand stopped, as if she had been caught doing something forbidden.

"We should lie down, my lady," Stannis said, and the discomfort in his voice seemed to have increased even more. But his voice was also lower than before, husky almost. She swallowed, but then scolded herself for the childish feeling of disappointment that she couldn't simply keep petting his chest for the rest of the night. 

"Yes, Your Grace," she replied quietly. She was shivering again when she pulled her legs up onto the bed, lay down and clutched the thin blanket, which had almost fallen off her shoulders, to her chest. Stannis pulled off his boots before he joined her. Everything about him spoke of hesitation, even as his eyes – for the first time – glanced over her body. She closed her eyes and wondered if this was where the unpleasant part would begin. She felt the bed move next to her, then calloused fingertips caressing her throat. Relief flooded through her when he kissed her again. She could feel him next to her, lying on his side, his chest pressed against her arm, and she turned towards him a little, one hand still clutching the blanket as she grabbed his shoulder again.

His hand seemed to cover all of her throat, but she did not feel threatened now, not with his lips on hers. For the first time she thought that there might be something comforting about his strength – that a man who could hurt her so easily was just as capable of protecting her. She tried to keep up as the kiss deepened, fingers digging into his shoulder. His other arm moved underneath her, his hand came to rest on her waist and he pulled her close. She gasped when she suddenly felt the length of his body against hers, but it was less fear than surprise at the pleasure that filled her.

She couldn't believe that _she_ made that plaintive little noise when he broke the kiss, his lips tracing his fingers' path on her throat, her collarbones, while his hand moved down to her hip. Even through the thin fabric of her undergown his touch burnt and she pressed her legs together, surprised by the heat between her thighs that she had only ever experienced before when she had imagined Ser Loras embracing and holding her. Stannis kissed his way further down, the rasp of his beard a stark contrast to his lips on her sensitised skin. She put her hand to the back of his head when she thought that he was about to stop; his remaining hair was too short to grab, but he seemed to understand nonetheless. She realised a moment too late that she had taken her arm off her breasts when his lips pressed lightly against them. He was leaning over her now, but he was propping himself up with one hand so their bodies barely touched.

She felt as if she should be scared, but mostly she was confused that her fear seemed suddenly so insignificant compared to the thrill she felt when he touched her. Yet Stannis must have noticed her tensing up, for his lips moved back to her shoulder, kissing her where the gown had slipped to the side. His voice was quiet, hot breath washing over her ear as he asked:

"Do you want me to stop?" 

She glanced at him, at the sudden fire in his blue eyes. She had appreciated before that he did not look at her with desire, but she liked this new expression on his face; it made her feel wanted, not like she was but a nuisance to him. Even though his lips had stilled, his hand kept moving lightly on her hip, caressing her, edging down until his fingertips brushed her thigh. She gasped a little at that.

"Oh, no, you mustn't." Her voice sounded so breathless, she barely recognised it. She was afraid he would think less of her for feeling so flustered in his arms, so she turned her head and shyly pressed her lips against his before he could reply. As he kissed her she dared to wrap her arms around his torso – she didn't want him to leave, to stop, and she liked the feeling of his hard back muscles tensing beneath her hands. He complied and moved closer, and a shiver went through Sansa when his chest pressed against hers. She could not help but tense a little when he wedged one of his legs between hers, his knee rubbing against the insides of her thighs as he pushed them apart. But it meant having him closer, so she tried to accommodate him. His body seemed to cover hers almost entirely, and what she would have once thought terrifying only excited her now, her mind barely able to keep up with the sensations that flooded her body.

Without meaning to she had pulled his shirt up a bit when her fingers had grabbed the fabric, and in another moment of daring she moved her hand down to the bared small of his back. His skin felt a little sweaty, rougher than hers, stretched too tight over his muscles and bones, and as her hand moved up she found a thin, long scar. He bucked against her when she ran her nails over it, and his groin brushed her thigh for the first time. She blushed, but at the same time she almost felt proud of herself when a strangled moan left Stannis' mouth, the first sign of pleasure she had heard from him since this had started. Maybe she _was_ doing something right, and the thought made her a little giddy.

Their eyes met, and to Sansa's surprise Stannis looked ashamed, his jaw clenched even harder than before. She put one hand to his cheek to prevent that awful teeth-grinding, still clinging to his back with the other, and smiled at him. It cost her no effort this time.

"Your Grace," she started, trying to coax him into leaning down and kissing her again, but she could just as well have tried to move the Wall. Her fingers caressed the scar again, vaguely wondering if it was old or fresh, a sparring wound from his youth or a mark of the war he had fought for his throne and for the realm. "My husband."

Her words made him look only more uncomfortable, and she regretted speaking at all. It seemed odd to her that he was so awkward when he had been married before, and decided that his first wife must have been very different from her. But if his first marriage had been as unhappy as he had said, that was probably for the best.

"Please, Your Grace ..." She was not sure what she was asking for, only that she did not want him to stop. She tilted her head up until her lips brushed against his jaw, then tightened both her arms around him. Even though he was too thin, his body still felt so broad and strong. 

He hesitated, grinding his teeth a little, before his hand left her thigh and reached down. He fumbled awkwardly with her undergown as he tried to push it up, shifting when he realised he was kneeling on it. Cool air hit her calves, her knees, and she gasped as she felt his hand on her thigh, unhindered by the fabric. His hands had felt rough before, but on the sensitive inside of her thigh she felt every callous on his palm and his fingers as he slowly slid his hand upwards. It tickled a little, but mostly she felt warm and excited and far less scared than earlier today. His hand pushed her thighs apart as it moved up, and she complied without even hesitating. Somehow she did not really expect him to hurt her anymore.

Stannis was kissing her throat again, face buried against her neck as if he did not want to look at her. Her head lolled back on the soft pillow as he sucked lightly on the skin beneath her chin, and she tried to focus on that when his hand reached her undergarments. She felt her insecurity return when he started pulling them down, lifting her hips up a little with one hand, but she tried her best to accommodate him instead of being in the way. Yet she couldn't meet his eyes when he glanced up at her, and she was sure that her face had to be as red as her hair. One of his hands was stroking her side, the touch warm and heavy and gentle despite the rough skin. Stannis looked like he wanted to say something, but words failed him and he just breathed another kiss onto her neck. There was something almost apologetic about the gesture.

Even though her gown still covered her upper body and even her thighs, she felt naked when Stannis slid her undergarments off her legs. But it was not too bad once his hand returned to her thigh, gently stroking its way upwards, his touch so light that it was at odds with the determination he usually showed. She gasped loudly when his hand came to rest between her legs, then made an even more undignified sound when his fingers moved a little. Even through a haze of excitement she was surprised how slick she had to be for his fingers to slide so easily against her. 

Yet Stannis stopped almost immediately when she moaned and raised his head in alarm. He looked more impatient than before, his eyes seemed darker, but the tenseness in his shoulders and neck spoke of pure restraint.

"Am I hurting you?" She noticed only now that his breathing was heavy as well, yet the concern in his voice sounded genuine. For a moment she wondered if he would stop completely if she asked him to, but she did not really care to find out. Instead she wiggled a little, grinding against his large hand, her eyes fluttering close.

"No, no ... it is lovely, Your Grace ... so very lovely ..." Her voice sounded nothing like her own, and the part of her mind that still cared hoped that he would not think her wanton, but she was his _wife_ , wasn't she, she had every right to enjoy his caresses. He still was more careful than before, rubbing her lightly. He had stopped kissing her to look at her intently, gauging her reaction, for every time something made her moan he did it again, but his touches became gentler whenever she flinched away from him. It almost frightened her how good she felt, melting under his hand, not sure whether she wanted him to stop or to go on forever.

She wished she could make him feel the same, but she wouldn't have known how, and even now it would seem improper to her to do any more than she was already doing, still clinging to his back and his shoulders, her fingers moving over his sweat-slick skin. It was a pity that his hands could not be everywhere at once, caressing her throat and her thighs and maybe, maybe even her breasts, without stopping what he was doing now. She had never thought it could feel like this, so thrilling and exciting and only a little frightening. Judging by the look on his face, Stannis was as surprised as she was, and the thought went through her mind that the king truly must have been estranged from his first wife.

His body was almost fully covering hers by now, and she felt his groin against her thigh, with only the fabric of his breeches between them. It felt odd, she thought, and blushed in embarrassment when it dawned on her what _that_ was. He groaned quietly as her thigh moved a little against him, a strangled sound as if he was desperately trying to suppress it.

She let her legs fall a bit further apart so he could kneel between them, but to her disappointment he suddenly withdrew his hand. Protesting words already on her lips, she looked up to see him fumbling with the fastenings of his breeches, and the words remained unspoken. She wanted to look, wanted to see, but he already seemed even more uncomfortable than she was. In this moment, she wondered how she could ever have been scared of him, for a man who seemed so uncertain could hardly be threatening. Maybe he did not want her to look at him, just like it would have frightened her if he had just torn off her undergown to stare at her breasts, so she laid her head back on the pillow to keep herself from glancing down. Her hands kept caressing his shoulders, and she felt a light tremor in his too tense muscles. She wondered if a man could hurt himself by being that tense.

Her breath hitched as she felt _something_ against her thigh, but again she resisted the urge to look, to touch. Instead she met his eyes when he raised his head again. Stannis looked almost tormented, guilty, and she wondered what for. It had to be obvious that she was willing, and she was his lawful wife, _his_ by right – which might just matter more to a man like Stannis Baratheon than her willingness. 

"I am told it might hurt," he said quietly, and she felt a different kind of warmth blossom inside her when she realised that he was concerned, that he truly did not want to hurt her. She smiled so broadly that her cheeks hurt a little, and for the first time she thought that maybe, maybe she might learn to feel some affection for this man who was too good at hiding what kindness he had in him.

"I am sure Your Grace will make it as little painful as possible." She ran her fingers over his cheek, tenderly almost, and this time she _felt_ his smile more than she saw it. His voice still sounded bitter.

"You give me more credit than you should, my lady. I am hardly -" A pause, teeth grinding as he looked for the right words. "- good at this."

"You are good to me, Your Grace. What else could I ask of you?" The look in his eyes was almost vulnerable when she said that, something so raw and helpless that it made her heart ache. Once more she tried to nudge his head down to kiss her, and this time he understood and complied, his lips tender on hers. It was foolish, maybe, but she thought it almost felt like a loving kiss.

Their lips were still locked when his hand pushed her legs further apart. The hair on his thighs tickled her a little, sharp hipbones dug almost painfully into her thighs. But the discomfort distracted her enough that she was almost surprised when she suddenly felt him _there_ again, his knuckles brushing the inside of her thigh as he guided himself into her. Her eyes closed and she moaned when he entered her, slowly, ever so carefully, his entire body taut with restraint. There was pain, yes, but also pleasant friction just where he had touched her before. But more than anything she realised what this moment meant: that she was truly his wife now, his queen, a woman grown and not a maiden anymore. That this had become real and irreversible – and that it was not with someone who hurt or repulsed her, but with the man who had given her justice for all the pain she had had to endure. She could forgive him for a little burn between her thighs, a burn that hardly compared to the pleasure she felt when he moved against her.

She clung to him willingly as his arm encircled her, keeping her close. His movements were almost excruciatingly slow as he rocked against her. She wanted to tell him that she was fine, that he need not worry, but the only sounds she managed were quiet gasps and not so quiet moans. Stannis was almost silent above her, but his breathing against her cheek was fast and shallow. The grip of his hand on her hip tightened almost painfully, but even that only sent another shiver through her body as his thrusts became deeper. The world around her had faded away, all she felt was his body on top of her her, inside her, the smell of soap and lemons and a hint of sweat in her nose, the quiet sound of their bodies moving together and her own moans in her ears.

Sansa did not know how long this would last, but she hoped it would not stop any time soon. She moaned at the friction of his body against hers, the heat between her legs, his lips on her neck as he kept kissing her breathlessly. She wished now that they had undressed more, wondering what his chest would feel like against her breasts without two layers of fabric in between. It hurt a little when Stannis' control started to falter, but the pleasure between her thighs still kept rising, and she found herself clutching his shoulders and bucking up against him. She felt half delirious by the time he suddenly went still above her, shuddering, and this time he could not bite back the deep moan that escaped his throat.

His body was heavy when he slumped down on her, but it only took him a second to realise that he might be crushing her before he rolled to the side. She moaned in protest and tightened her arms around him so she rolled over with him, legs still entangled with his even as she felt him slip out of her, her head pressed against his chest. His shirt had opened a bit further and she felt skin and coarse hair underneath her lips. She placed a breathless kiss on his chest, ran her hand over it.

Both his arms were around her now, and she nuzzled against him, grateful that he did not push her away. She could hear his heart hammering in his chest, his breathing was laboured, and she realised only now what discipline it must have cost him to stay so in control of himself all the time.

_Most of the time._

The thought made her smile. She felt hot between her legs, hot and wet and still tingly, and she found herself wishing he was still inside her. Without thinking much she shifted in his arms until his thigh ended up resting between her legs, a warm, firm, pleasant pressure as she rubbed a little against him. Minutes passed in silence, with her squirming in his arms as his fingers combed through her tangled hair. 

"Are you well, my lady?" he finally asked, his voice as gruff again as it had been at court, and still so _formal_. Stannis never sounded gallant, but he always sounded stiff. It was as if he did not even have a more relaxed way of speaking.

"Yes, Your Grace." She sighed happily and slipped her fingers underneath his shirt. It seemed funny that he had more hair on his chest than on his head. "I did not know it would be so ..."

"Lovely?" he offered with a scoff, sounding doubtful. She looked up in surprise, and for the first time since they had met she wondered if there was humour glimmering in his eyes, or if that was just vain hope on her part.

"I was going to say magical, Your Grace." This time she could not bite back a giggle at the incredulous look on his face. "Like a wedding night ought to be." She bedded her head against his chest again, sighing when his thigh muscles twitched between her legs. He was quiet for a while. She thought she could _hear_ him brood, but at least he seemed to enjoy touching her hair.

"Considering the situation, my lady ... it might be appropriate for you to call me by my name." His words surprised her, and they sounded so uncomfortable that she wondered if he meant them or if he only tried to humour her. She glanced up at him again.

"I couldn't, Your Grace. It would seem disrespectful." The disappointment in his eyes made her wish she had said something different, so she quickly added, "But I will of course, if you wish."

"No, there's no need to inconvenience yourself." He sounded prickly, angry even. His hands stilled and he tensed up, and suddenly she felt unwelcome in his arms. Tears stung in her eyes. Everything had been going so well, but now she had apparently ruined everything and she did not even know what she had done wrong. It did not help that she hardly knew what to say to appease him, to convince him that she had not meant to reject him.

"I am sorry, Your Grace ... Stannis ..." His name felt so unfamiliar on her tongue, it was the name of a stranger, of a king, not of the man who had made her feel so wonderful. "I did not mean to anger you, please ... please forgive me."

"I am not angry," he said, but his tone belied his words. "I merely ... I would not have remarried at all if I was not in need of a son, but – I thought this could be different."

"I'm sorry you had to marry me, Your Grace." She hated how small her voice sounded again. Now that his guard was back up, he looked just as terrifying as before. She was suddenly uncomfortably aware that her gown was somewhere around her thighs, revealing her legs. 

"You misunderstand." She blinked at him, tried to quench the tiny flicker of hope, but then he said, "I was trying to pay you a compliment."

She blinked again, and she was sure she looked as dumbfounded as he had before.

"I couldn't tell, Your Grace," she said quietly, trying to smile again. "I ... I'm afraid I don't know you well enough yet. But I will learn, I promise."

"I am not good with courtesies and compliments." He looked embarrassed when he added, "Your brother suggested I try."

That made her smile, truly, and she moved into his embrace again, determined to ignore his tenseness.

"That was kind of him, but ... it is not important. Not really." It surprised her how much she meant it. "You were kind to me, and that matters more than words. I feel honoured that you even tried, just for me." Looking at him, she did not know if her word had any effect. Quietly she added, "Stannis."

His smile almost reached the corners of his lips and he bent down a little as if to kiss her, but stopped at the last moment. Encouraged by his lack of anger she closed the distance between them and kissed him, only lightly. His arms tightened around her, but it felt safe, not frightening. He held her like a husband _should_ hold his wife.

 _He is not handsome_ , she thought, _nor gallant or charming. But he was so gentle with me, so patient. And if Jon loves him so dearly, maybe I can as well in time._

"If I am to call you by your name, should you not use mine as well?" she asked him after a while, drawing idle circles on his chest, her head tucked underneath his chin. He scoffed. Or laughed. She wasn't quite sure which.

"Sansa," he tried. It did not sound bad from his lips, the syllables soft even in his harsh voice. Encompassed in his arms she closed her eyes, smiling against the warm skin of his chest, against his steady heartbeat. She dimly registered that he said something else, but she wasn't sure what it was. She wanted to stay awake to keep touching him, to savour the feeling of his thigh between her legs, of his hand in her hair, but the moment she closed her eyes she felt the exhaustion of the day catching up with her. Her last thought was that she couldn't just fall asleep like that, half-naked and indecent and while the king was still talking to her, but she already dozed off a mere moment later.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa was woken by a cool breeze on her face and the smell of fresh air in her nose. She opened her eyes, blinked against the early morning sun that fell in through the open window. A glance at the hearth showed her that the fire had gone out during the night, but Sansa didn't feel cold. She was wrapped in a thick fur blanket, though she couldn't remember covering herself before she went to sleep.

A blush crept over her face when she thought of last night; her thighs felt a bit sticky, her hair was a mess. She was so used to sleeping alone that it took her a moment to wonder where her husband had gone, for he wasn't in bed with her anymore. A pang of disappointment filled her at that; she remembered how he had held her last night, and she would have liked to wake up in his arms. She turned around and sat up, holding the blanket close to her chest. She smiled when she saw Stannis standing at the other side of the room, his back turned to her.

The king was bent over a small basin and washing his face; he couldn't have been up for long. He had taken off his shirt, and his breeches sat low on his hips. Sansa was glad that he hadn't heard her yet, for she enjoyed the opportunity to look at him: the skin on his back was pale, but smooth, marred only by a few old scars and some younger-looking bruises. He was well-muscled, as she had expected, but far too thin – his shoulder blades jutted out, and she could see his ribs when he dried his face.

"Good morning, Your Grace," Sansa said. He flinched in surprise and turned quickly, and Sansa winced when his blue eyes met hers. She had thought he would frighten her less after last night, but it did not help that he always looked so tense, like a predator who was ready to snap his prey's neck. "Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you," she added demurely.

He relaxed a little and walked over to the bed. Sansa glanced up, let her eyes wander over his body for a moment. The muscles on his chest and stomach were sharply defined, not so much because he was overly muscled than because there didn't seem to be an ounce of fat on his body. She wondered if he would let her touch him.

"I thought you were asleep, my lady," Stannis said stiffly.

"I was, until a few moments ago."

"Then I should apologise for waking you."

Sansa met his eyes at that. There it was again, that slight insecurity he hid so well behind what always looked like annoyance. She stretched out one hand to take his, relieved that he stepped closer. Their fingers entwined, and the care with which he returned the gesture reassured her.

"You should only apologise for leaving bed so early," she said with a smile, hoping that she was not overstepping her boundaries. She tugged gently at his hand, but he didn't move. "It's barely day."

"I have a kingdom to rule, my lady," he pointed out, and Sansa half wondered if he was joking. Judging by the light in the room, the sun had only just come up. There were limits even to how early a king should rise.

"Surely not on the morning after your wedding, Your Grace. I doubt anyone is already awake after last night's feast." He seemed to hesitate, but when she tugged at his hand again, he sat down on the edge of the bed. His hand was cool in hers, still a bit damp from the water, but she remembered all too well how he had touched her last night. As she looked at him, eyes roaming over his chest, his broad shoulders, his sinewy arms, he mustered her as well, and his frown seemed worried more than anything else. He raised his other hand to her face and gently brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Did I hurt you last night?" 

Sansa shook her head and moved a bit closer to him, as far as she could with the blanket wrapped around her body. 

"It is kind of you to ask, but you needn't worry." She squeezed his hand. "I told you it was lovely."

This time her words did not make him smile, his frown only deepened and he suddenly pulled back his hand, as if he didn't like what he saw.

"You're barely more than a child." 

His words felt like a slap, and Sansa stared at him in disbelief. Part of her wanted to remind him that she had hardly been a child last night, but that would have been discourteous. Instead she took a deep breath and steeled herself for what she was about to say, straightened her back a little.

"I haven't been a child since the Lannisters murdered my father, Your Grace." Her voice was sharp on his title, but it seemed to snap him out of his moment of guilt. The look in his eyes softened. For a few seconds Stannis was quiet, stared down at their still entwined hands, his thumb brushing gently over her palm. His voice cracked a little when he spoke.

"I was about the same age as you were when I lost my parents." It was Sansa's turn to be quiet. She was surprised; Stannis had never spoken of anything personal to her before, never even mentioned his parents or his brothers, nor his late wife and his daughter. She moved closer still until her shoulder brushed his. 

"I did not know that," Sansa said softly. "What happened to them?"

"A storm ... their ship sank, just in sight of the castle. Robert and I watched it shatter on the rocks."

Sansa couldn't ever imagine King Stannis as a boy, couldn't imagine him crying in his brother's arms, but she knew the pain of losing one's parents and felt suddenly sorry that she had ever mentioned it. She touched his cheek with her free hand, a shy caress only, but it seemed welcome. Encouraged by the way he moved into her touch, she leant in and breathed a kiss on his jaw. The surprise in his eyes when he looked up was almost painful to see, as if even last night had not convinced him that she liked touching him. Sansa realised only now that it had been guilt, more than anything else, that had made him pull back from her earlier.

"Stannis." She leant into him, as awkward as that was in her position, didn't even mind that the blanket slipped from her shoulders. "Have we not both suffered enough? Lost enough? Parents, siblings ..." Sansa's voice failed her for a moment – she thought of father and mother and Robb and who knew where Arya was, if she was even alive – but she forced herself to go on. "I am so tired of grieving. I have grieved enough for an old woman. I don't want to be bitter and unhappy and alone."

A joyless laugh escaped Stannis' throat. "You mean like me?"

Sansa bit her lip, scolded herself for her careless words, but she couldn't take them back, not when they were true. Instead she only kissed his cheek again, curled her fingers around his. She could not lessen his grief any more than he could take hers, but the least they could do was try to make the future happier than the past.

"You don't have to be." She cocked her head, tried to meet his eyes although he was still looking away. "Last night was not ... bad for you, was it? If it was, I'll learn, I'll - "

"No." Stannis' fingers tightened around hers; the blue veins on his hands and forearms stood out under pale skin. The sight made her heart beat a little faster, brought back pleasant memories of what those hands felt like. "You don't have to _learn_ anything for me. I don't require such things."

Sansa wondered if he was truly being dense or if he did not _want_ to understand her. She cupped his chin to make him look at her, smiled when he finally complied.

"It would hardly be just if I gave you any less than you give me." She dared to kiss him lightly, and just as she was about to pull back his mouth pressed back against hers. He didn't move away, and his lips still brushed hers when he muttered, "You didn't."

She nudged his nose with hers, then kissed him again while she put a hand on his chest. It was almost like a game, trying to coax him into moving when his whole body was as tense as if he was trying to turn himself into stone. Her hand slid down, fingertips brushing over coarse hair, down to the hard muscles of his stomach. Sansa sighed happily when he finally moved, his tongue teasing against her lips while he tried to push down the blanket that still half covered her. 

As much as she did not want to let go of him, she was starting to sweat under it. She pushed it away a bit awkwardly – not without noticing that he must have taken real care to tuck her in before he got up – and blushed when she was left with nothing but her shift. Her heart raced in her chest when she felt his eyes on her, she couldn't think about anything but the way he had touched her last night, his hands on her thighs, between her legs, his lips against her throat. Sansa wondered if it was normal, if it was _proper_ for a woman to long for her husband so much, but she found that for once she did not care. She reached out to take Stannis' hand again when he still hesitated, guided it to her lips to kiss his knuckles, a warm breath on each one of them, before she put his hand on her chest, just above her breast. 

It finally made him move closer. He sat next to her on the bed, trying – and not quite managing, she thought almost giddily – to keep his eyes on her face. His resolve seemed to falter when she guided his hand downwards to cup her breast, his touch heavy and gentle at the same time, and burning hot even through the thin fabric. Sansa shuddered a little, but it was from excitement as much as nervousness.

"You ... you don't have to do that, my lady," Stannis said in a gruff voice, although it was obvious that he hardly wanted to stop.

"I know," she replied, and it wasn't a lie. She truly believed him that he would be just as content to do his duty quickly and only as often as necessary, and barely even touch her while he was at it. He did not seem to understand that that would only make it more painful for her. "But will you think less of me if I would rather enjoy my duty than merely endure it?"

Stannis finally kissed her at that, more passionately than before, fingers tangling in her hair while the thumb of his other hand stroked her breast lightly. Sansa melted into him; she wanted so many things at the same time and could barely voice half of them. Whimpered in protest when his hand briefly moved away from her breast, but only to slip underneath the fabric, and the hard callouses on her sensitive skin made her moan. She threw her arms around him to hold him close, gasped a little when his weight pressed her down onto the bed, when his body covered hers and she suddenly felt trapped. For a second she wondered if he had only been kind to her that first time, if he would be rougher from now on, if her willingness would make him think that he didn't have to be careful anymore. She closed her eyes in a moment of panic, but all Stannis did was kiss her face, his lips gentle on her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, then her mouth again. His touch on her breast was as light and tender as before, and Sansa felt silly for doubting him. She blinked up at Stannis, reminded herself that she had nothing to fear from him. He had promised not to hurt her, had he not? And Jon had said the king was a man of his word.

Stannis took as much his time with her as the night before, kissed and caressed her with that same mixture of tenderness and hesitation, and she soon found herself relaxing again. She arched up against him, clung to his shoulders when he kissed his way down. His hand still cupped her breast, and she shivered as his mouth joined it, soft kisses at first, then just the lightest grazing of teeth. She tried and failed to bite back her moan, knowing that it would only make him stop, and as she had feared Stannis looked up, frowning in concern. He seemed as edgy as she was, as afraid of hurting her as she was of being hurt. Sansa caressed his cheek, ran her fingers over his lips. She smiled when he kissed them – almost reverently, she liked to believe, and a girlish part of her which she had long thought dead added that he kissed her hand like a queen's.

With her fingers back on his cheek she nudged him closer again, sighed happily when he resumed his kisses, didn't even mind when he pushed the fabric further aside to reach more skin. There wasn't much finesse to his touches, but they were always so careful; like she was so precious that he could risk breaking her. Yet at the same time she could feel – and in the light of day even see – the restrained strength in his body, the way the thick cords on his neck and shoulders stood out, the way his arm muscles tensed when he reached down to push up her shift, but he stopped before he even reached her hips.

Blue eyes looked up questioningly. Sansa considered asking him to stop, to let her leave it on since it wasn't really in the way and the thought of being naked still scared her a little, but she decided that she'd rather feel him, all of him, his chest and his stomach and his legs against hers without any fabric between them. So she nodded and accommodated him when he pulled the shift up and over her head. A shiver went through her when he discarded it; she almost regretted her decision when his eyes raked over her body. But before she could move to cover herself with her hands he was on top of her again, pressed flush against her. Sansa smiled against his shoulder – this she could live with; she felt a lot less exposed with his body covering hers.

Stannis kept caressing her, and Sansa was far past any fears by the time she felt his hand between her legs, his fingers making her moan and shiver long before he entered her. He took her as gently as the night before, slow and careful, no matter how much she arched up against him, her legs wrapped around his hips to keep him where she wanted him. Sansa was already dizzy with pleasure by the time his restraint faltered, she felt as if she was coming apart even before he thrust a last time into her and went still. She felt overwhelmed, better than ever before in her life. Every inch of her skin prickled, even where he didn't touch her. It was hard to believe that the moans that left her lips were her own, so helpless and blissful at the same time.

"Sansa." Stannis' voice was a low rumble by her ear. She opened her eyes, couldn't even remember closing them, and blushed when she realised that he was looking at her while he was still inside her. But even so she felt safe, with her arms and legs wrapped around him while he held her, one of his hands stroking her hair again as if he thought he had to reassure her. 

"Don't ask if you hurt me," Sansa said breathlessly, sweetening her words with a smile, and she thought the corners of his mouth quirked up a little. "If you were with me all day, I still would have no complaints."

"Don't flatter me," he grumbled, but even he didn't sound like he actually believed his words.

"Are you accusing me of lying, Your Grace?" Sansa asked and planted a playful kiss on the corner of his mouth, as if she could somehow keep his smile there. There was no reply, but he turned his head to kiss her properly. Strong arms pulled her with him when he rolled over onto his back, and although she was a bit disappointed to lose his touch _there_ , it was more comfortable to curl up against him. She was suddenly aware again that they were both naked – the king had discarded his breeches before taking her – and she hid her flushed face against his chest. 

Stannis was quiet, idly caressed her hair and her back – featherlight touches that almost tickled – and since he did not move to cover himself just yet, Sansa dared to open one eye and peek down. His manhood rested a bit to the side on his thigh; the hair between his legs was ink black and curly. Sansa's hand on his stomach twitched a little, tempted to reach down and run her fingers through that hair, maybe even touch his manhood. She wondered if it would feel as good for him as it did for her when his fingers were between her legs, but she didn't dare to find out. Stannis looked contented, unusually relaxed, and she was afraid that her clumsiness would only bother him. Instead she simply nuzzled closer and let her fingers caress his chest and stomach, curiously tracing the ridges of his muscles, the outline of his ribs. She decided that she'd have to get him to eat more, now that the war was over.

It was comfortable, familiar almost. She had never expected to feel that way around him, not ever, and certainly not so soon. Not after he had glared at her throughout the wedding ceremony, not when he had behaved as if marrying her was a nuisance and a waste of time.

"Your Gr– Stannis," she said when he started to tense up again, before he could sit up. She raised her head a little to look into his eyes. "I wish ... I wish you would not think of me as a child. I know I am young, but ... I can be a good wife to you, a good mother to your children. A good queen." She raised her hand to smooth out the lines on his forehead, but she could not take the confusion from his gaze.

"You're ... kind," he said with wonder in his voice. "After everything that was done to you."

"Why would I not be kind to you? You saved me, you punished those who took my loved ones, you found my brothers and brought them back to Winterfell ... And Jon speaks as highly of you as he does of our father."

"Few people think of me as highly as Ser Jon does," Stannis pointed out. Sansa believed she heard just a hint of affection in his words. It did not surprise her. From what Jon had told her, he and the king had become close during the war. They must have for Jon to leave the Night's Watch and devote his life to serving Stannis in the South.

"He is my brother. Maybe we see you through the same eyes." She noticed the barest hint of a flush underneath his beard, but it had probably been there before.

Sansa shivered a little. Without Stannis on top of her, moving against her, it was rather cold in the room. The king must have opened the window after getting up, and the cold winter air brought goosebumps to her skin. Stannis noticed her shivering and sat up. His hands went for a blanket and pulled it over her. There was a certain awkwardness about his gesture, similar to when he kissed or touched her, as if he half expected to get it wrong and be mocked for it. Sansa sat up as well, one hand holding the blanket in place, and reached out with the other to caress his cheek.

"May I ask you something, Your Grace?" His eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he gave a curt nod. It was almost impressive how quicky he could make her feel uncomfortable and unwelcome again, but Sansa reminded herself of Jon's words, that she should not let his brusque manner scare her off. "Your first lady wife ..." Sansa paused, but there was no pain in Stannis' eyes, no regret, no longing, and she continued, "she did not love you much, did she?"

"No more than I loved her," Stannis replied coldly. He turned his head aside, but Sansa's finger stayed on his cheek, just the smallest caress. "We didn't marry for love." He said the word with the same disdain with which he had said 'pleasure' the night before, as if it was some unseemly frivolity, a waste of time best left to lesser men.

"Neither did we," Sansa said. "But we can learn to love each other, no? My parents did." Thinking of them still broke her heart, but for the first time she thought that she might heal, that her wounds might be mended one day. Stannis ground his teeth.

"I appreciate your kindness, my lady. But I am not fool enough to mistake that kindness for love."

She felt as if he had slapped her, and didn't try to hold him back when he got up and crossed the room with a few long strides before he put on a thick dressing gown.

"And you're telling me I shouldn't be a fool either?" Sansa asked finally, but her voice was so weak it trembled. Much as she tried to tell herself that he hadn't meant it that way, the words still stung.

Stannis looked at her in surprise; his frown deepened and he shook his head slightly. He walked back towards her, somewhat more comfortable now that he was dressed. His eyes seemed softer, but maybe Sansa was only imagining that because she wanted to.

"I did not mean -" He was grinding his teeth again, obviously unsure what to say. "I merely know better than to expect love from other people."

"I am not 'other people'. I am your wife," Sansa reminded him, then quickly added, "And I will be a better wife than one who apparently showed you so little affection that you seem surprised every time I wish to kiss you."

Stannis stared at her in disbelief for a moment, but then he laughed. It was only a dry, short burst that would have barely deserved to be called laughter if he were any other man.

"I didn't know you could be as blunt as your brother," he said simply. Sansa thought it was meant as a compliment. It gave her hope again that his words had really only been awkward, that he hadn't meant that he could never love her.

"He said you did not like people to mince their words. As discourteous as that is."

"Keep your courtesies for court, and your bluntness for me," Stannis said. He had stopped grinding his teeth, and when Sansa took his hand like earlier that morning, he squeezed it gently. Sansa looked at their entangled hands, the way his fingertips caressed her skin, and thought that even if he never loved her, his kindness alone was more than she had hoped for just a day ago. She shouldn't expect too much of him.

"I can try, Your Grace." She met his eyes again. "My husband."

And this time when she said it, it wasn't the word 'husband' that made her smile, but the thought that he was _hers_ , and hers alone. The king might belong to his people, his realm, his throne, but she doubted that there were many who truly knew the man who wore the crown, many who had seen him as unguarded as she had that night.

"I really must leave now," Stannis said, but his voice was less gruff than usual. Sansa sighed, but thought better of it than to object another time, even though she would rather have him join her in bed again. By now she knew enough about Stannis Baratheon to be sure that his duties always came first.

"Will you join me tonight, Your Grace?" Sansa asked when he let go of her hand. She made sure to sound as hopeful as she felt, rather than make him think that she was dreading his company. "If I am to give you an heir ... I will need your help."

Sansa had to bite back a smile when Stannis swallowed hard. She felt the same pleasant, tingly heat in her stomach as when he touched her, just from the way he looked at her now, his eyes dark, his lips slightly parted rather than pressed together as they usually were. For a moment she hoped that he would come back to bed and make love to her again. He reached out to stroke her hair, then cupped her chin lightly. Sansa straightened up and raised her head, sighed when his thumb brushed over her bottom lip. She kissed it, let it slip between her lips for just a split second. Stannis pulled back his hand as if he had burnt himself, and this time there was most definitely a faint blush on his cheeks.

"I will," he said a moment later, as if he only just realised that he still owed her an answer. His eyes were fixed on her lips, and she tilted her head up a bit more, prayed silently that he would understand what she wanted. And he did, although he hesitated before he finally leant down and kissed her, dry lips pressing against hers for just a moment, his beard scratching against her skin, and then he pulled back already. But Sansa's lips still prickled and she touched them gingerly, if only to hide what she was sure had to be a rather silly smile.

"You said it's a husband's duty to kiss his wife," Stannis quoted her own words back at her, and although he sounded somewhat sarcastic, she didn't feel that he was mocking her, nor that he had only kissed her out of duty. "I remember."

Sansa giggled, covered her mouth with one hand for a second, before she replied, "My brother did say that you're nothing if not dutiful."

"I'm sure that's not what he meant." The smile lingered in Stannis' eyes for another moment, but then it simply disappeared. His jaw clenched, he looked as dour as ever. The king again, always guarded and distant and unapproachable, but he intimidated her less now that she knew that he _could_ smile.

"My queen." He nodded at her, that same curt nod he gave all ladies when he couldn't avoid talking to them, but then he added, "Sansa."

It was ridiculous that her heart beat faster just from him saying her name, but she couldn't help it. Coming from him this small concession already felt intimate, a greater compliment than anything else he could say. A sign that he saw something else in her than just another duty.

"Stannis."

A twitch of his jaw muscle betrayed the hint of a smile, but he didn't say anything, just turned around and left for the adjacent room. Sansa heard him call for a servant and bathing water, before the door fell shut and she was alone again.

Wrapped in her blanket Sansa fell back onto the bed, smiling all over her face. She hadn't smiled so much since King's Landing had been taken by Stannis' forces, since Jon had found her in the Red Keep, since she had hugged him and clung to him, even though he was not the brother she had ever expected to come for her. She had forgotten her smiles again when she had agreed to marry King Stannis, willing to do what was best for the realm, but fearful of this dour king who never smiled. But as awkward as he was around her, both with words and with gestures, the care he had taken all night and all morning not to hurt her gave her hope that she might just find happiness with him. She remembered her mother telling her that kindness was the most important trait in a husband, and while Stannis seemed to lack any kindness at court, he had all the more left for her.

She pressed her face into the pillow that still smelled of him and closed her eyes. She wasn't sleepy anymore, but the bed was comfortable and she thought it was too early to rise just yet. It was nice to dream without any fear of the upcoming day, dream about being queen to a king who deserved his crown, with a Kingsguard that would protect rather than beat her. It was winter now, but she still remembered how beautiful the gardens of the Red Keep had been in summer, and she vowed to make sure they would be restored in spring. She could see herself spending her days there, making a home of the castle that had once been her prison. She imagined talking to Jon; she felt as if she barely knew the brother she had always shunned, but she wanted to know him now. And maybe she could befriend Stannis' daughter. The Princess Shireen was almost the same age as her, and while Sansa knew she could never replace the girl's mother, they might just become sisters.

She imagined having children of her own. Not blond, no, but black-haired and blue-eyed as their father, and maybe King Stannis would allow her to name their sons Eddard and Robb. Their father would teach them to be just, but she would also teach them to be kind and courteous and gallant.

Sansa remembered the last time she had such dreams, when the Tyrells had promised her Highgarden and a kind husband before the Lannisters had snatched that dream away from her. But there was only little sadness in her when she thought of that now, because this was not merely a dream, her husband was not only a name and a promise, and despite all the pain of the last years, she did not think that she would be disappointed again. Winter had lasted so long for her that it did not seem naïve to hope for spring.

And maybe her imagination was running away with her, but she thought that the cold wind that blew in from the window carried the faintest scent of snowdrops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so long to finish this; I hope it didn't disappoint. My thanks to everyone who has read this and especially to all the people who left me such incredibly kind reviews. They're very much appreciated. I will not add any more chapters to this fic, because it was just supposed to be about the wedding itself, but I do plan to write more Stannis/Sansa fics in this 'verse. :)


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